What seems like an age ago now, I lived in England with my parents. From what I remember, it was a hard life; one filled with hunger, thirst, abuse, and sorrow. My father’s main source of income was begging; he would return with scraps of cheese and bread occasionally, sometimes he would bring nothing at all. My parents gave most of what they had to me, and while they wasted away, I survived; I wouldn’t say I was comfortable, but I survived.

Around ten years into my miserable existence, my father somehow arranged for us to travel to America; he told us that he had agreed to work on a fishing vessel, in return for safe passage. The next week we set off to Dover – where we would meet our vessel – on a horse-drawn cart; it’s difficult to recall the journey now, but I remember the cold, the bitter, biting wind gnawing on my skin. Tears stung my cheeks the entire journey.

After days of travelling south from Morecombe we finally reached Dover; I remember feeling horrified by the sheer extravagance expressed by the rich people’s suits and frocks, and the utter desolation of the poor. Some looked worse off than we did; torn clothes, boils on their skin, the smell of death surrounded them.

The boat was already waiting for us when we arrived so we boarded quickly, avoiding the stinking buckets of chum piled near the port side. We were away almost as soon as I had sat on the rotting bench; the white cliffs of Dover faded into the distance as we followed the coast west. Soon we were clear of England and on our way to the new world.

It wasn’t long before I noticed the other sailors, great, beastly men with arms and thighs like small tree trunks; I avoided them as much as I could, as did my mother. However my father, who worked the ship with them, began to befriend them. I saw them play games of chance together; I saw my father lose, a lot. When the last of our money was gone he bet our clothes, my toys, and my mother’s broach. When everything was gone, even our rations for the night, he bet a pocket watch; a pocket watch he said was made of silver, one he said had been in his family for many years, one he didn’t have.

Once he had lost, and the men had found out he had lied, they were very, very angry. They began to shout, and my father begged for another chance. He told them they could have anything, they just had to name their price; one of them pointed at my mother. She was terrified, beginning to whimper, she told me to hide. I was paralyzed by fear and so when I didn’t move, she held me close; it seemed my father had refused and a fight broke out between him and the other men.

My mother took me into her arms and hid the violence from my eyes, I heard scuffles and shouts. Finally there was a noise like the slitting of a lambs throat, a guttural noise which entered my ears like the devil’s laugh; my father was dead. Then they turned on my mother.

So here I am again, re-telling the story I’ve told a thousand times, to a thousand people, just like you. It may come as a surprise to you, but contrary to popular belief, sheep aren’t performing monkeys! Although, some perform I think, but that’s not the point. Now go away and leave me alone!

I said leave me alone! Stop reading!

…

You really are insistent aren’t you. Fine, I’ll tell you my story. However, you are a lot older than my usual reader. Tell you what, this time I’ll tell the truth!

It all started when I woke up feeling a little chillier than usual. I didn’t think much of it at the time; it was only just coming into Spring after all. Anyway, I went about my usual business, you know, sheep stuff. That was when I began to grow suspicious, the pigs where laughing at me.

One of them said “Oi you” he laughed so hard he snorted like..well like a pig I suppose.. “get back inside or I’ll book you for indecent exposure”.

My ass was hanging out! Ha, get it? Farm humour…no?

Moving swiftly on, it later turned out that my idiot farmer had sheared me in my sleep! The bastard sold my wool to ‘The Master’. What kind of a name is that? I mean, it’s a bit presumptuous isn’t it? Sheep don’t just bow down to others you know, we don’t just follow the crowd, that’s for you lot to do. Who cares if one of the cows had a boob job, doesn’t mean I’ll get one. So, as I was saying, I wasn’t too mad, a farmer who feeds and shelters his sheep is welcome to a bit of wool from him. I just wish he hadn’t taken it all from one place…

That night, I went to sleep covering my backside with a bale of hay I had shuffled into. I seem to remember it being quite comfy, a little itchy though. But I digress, I woke in the morning feeling even colder than last night. I bleated in disbelief and in sorrow; you’d be surprised how many emotions you can fit into one ‘bhaa’. My whole back had been shaved in the night! At the time I wished I wasn’t such a heavy sleeper but now, with all manner of children and a few slightly odd adults reading me constantly, I’m not so sure I would do well as a light sleeper.

Obviously now I know who bought my second lot of stolen wool; as do all those damn ‘re-readers’ when I tell them incidentally. I hate re-readers, why do they have to waste my time, why should I have to repeat myself? That’s what’s wrong with today’s world, nobody cares about other people, just themsel…oh sorry, I do that sometimes. You’ll have to excuse me I am a couple hundred years old you know. Either way, it was that bitch, ‘The Dame’! It never ceases to amaze me that these stupid criminal masterminds use titles instead of names, imbeciles. I don’t call myself ‘The Sheep’ do I? No. Yes, yes I know it should have been rhetorical but this is my story so I can use or not use any literary devices I want.

As you can probably tell, I was pretty mad. I was on the verge of a breakdown at the time; I wouldn’t leave the stable for anything. Then I thought to myself, the farmer does have a family to feed, I guess he just needed some extra money this season. I let him off! That, was the worst mistake I have made in my entire life; I’ll get to why later. So I slept again, honestly believing that the worst was over.

I woke in the middle of the night, yawning intensely. That’s when I heard him, ‘ The Little Boy Who Lives Down The Lane’. He had stolen the last of my wool! You see, he’d heard of my lovely wool from his pal, ‘The Dame’ and, like any respectable evil genius would, he decided to get some for himself. This time however, the farmer wasn’t involved, ‘The Boy’ had decided he wasn’t going to pay, and had taken my wool himself.

I crept out of the stable and saw him creeping through the bushes towards the lane, that sly fox thought he could get away with it that easily! I prepared myself to charge; trying to imagine that the farmer’s dog was behind me, and there was a nice patch of green grass where ‘The Boy’ was, I began to run.

Once he had finally fallen asleep, Alex began to float peacefully on a sea of dreams. That is, until the water became land. Inside his own mind Alex ran, he saw flashes, pictures of dreams he had dreamt in the past, and those he had not yet conceived. Finally, one caught his eye, and once again, his dream world shifted.

He was flying. A long, torn, black cape attached to his shoulders was being dragged and twisted behind him. Suddenly he was aware that he was chasing something, a jet. Straining muscles that could never have existed in an ordinary human, Alex sped up, quickly gaining on his target.

Small suckers grew on the palm of his hands before he latched onto the outside of the cockpit. The pilot, a balding man with more hair on his chin than on his head looked up in surprise; he began to descend immediately, trying to shake Alex off. The newly grown suckers strained but stayed in place as Alex watched his biceps grow

When he was ready, Alex pulled the cockpit door off its hinges, and grabbed hold of the man within. He was terrified, but no matter how loud he forced his voice in desperate bargaining, the jet engine’s roar drowned him out. Before flying to the ground, Alex pushed the joystick forward, sending the plane plummeting toward the city.

Alex was fast, he was down in the streets before the jet was halfway to the ground. Once he had handed the man over to the police, he flew back into the air. Again, he began to expand his muscles. He became a huge, hulking mass, floating above even the tallest city skyscraper.

The jet was falling at an alarming rate, and even Alex was worried he wouldn’t catch it for a second, but he did. Slowly he allowed it to push him down to the roof of a nearby tower block, where he extended his arm into the cockpit, and switched off the engine.

That is where the dream ended, Alex’s alarm woke him up; it was 7.30am. He got out of bed and walked to the bathroom to wash his face. Looking in the mirror, he noticed he had changed in in his sleep. Suckers covered his palms, and his muscles were huge.

Post navigation

This blog will focus on Literature and Creative Writing, with a bit of Philosophy thrown in the mix. Each day I will post something new on various subjects within the literary universe; from reviews of my favourite (and my least favourite) books, to philosophical debates on the value of literature, and my own Creative Writing.

Make sure to comment on my work, whether you like it or not I would appreciate the feedback, and 'like' it if you enjoyed it. Otherwise, how would I know there was any point in writing more?

Also, be sure to visit my twitter feed and tumblr blog if you want to see more from me. Yo can find the links on my 'About' page.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy my blog.

Follow me, you won't regret it.

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.